


sights from the unseen

by uzumae



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, High School, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uzumae/pseuds/uzumae
Summary: The furtive confessions of a stranger's keenly wandering eyes.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 15
Kudos: 125
Collections: sunaosa lol screaming





	sights from the unseen

Spring marks the start of a new school year.

Classes are assigned, introductions are made, and students return to the monotonous routines etched within the slow passing of days. Life flutters in through the windows of their classrooms in stutters, with its worn textbooks and crisp uniforms and wrinkled homework papers. All in all, it’s a rather inconspicuous affair.

A stray petal lands on your desk, and you regard it distantly. The cherry blossom season, yet another obvious marker of spring, has dawned upon the nation in full. Outside, the courtyard and entrance gates lie swathed in pink, not unlike the setting of a typical shoujo manga confession. With quiet apathy, you reach for the petal and flick it away.

You are not alone in noticing the allures of spring, it appears. Sitting diagonally from you, Miya Osamu has his attention transfixed out the window, his usual deadpan expression adorned in silence. You watch him for a few moments.

The Inarizaki Boys Volleyball Team is a name that evokes a sense of reverence amongst all Inarizaki students. The pride of their school, students belonging to this upper echelon possess a sort of untouchable air, one that seems almost tangible when it comes to the Miya twins. They are the sort of figures that prompt whispered conversations in the hallways, concealed beneath cupped hands and flushed faces. But of course, you think, what can you expect from high school students with their own fanbase?

The dazed and seemingly uninterested demeanour surrounding Osamu persists, stretching the minor distance between your desks into a chasm, and you tear your eyes away.

Directly in front of you and to Osamu’s left, Suna Rintarou is seated, toying with a pencil in his hand. You observe as the pencil dances between long fingers, looping back and forth with grace, before the rhythm halts and Suna moves to write on something. Fujioka-sensei’s toneless voice drowns in the movements of Suna’s hand, focused and precise. A few seconds later, a small piece of paper emerges into view.

It’s a swift, deft movement when Suna slides the folded note onto Osamu’s desk, meticulously timed between the pause taken as Fujioka-sensei turns towards the blackboard. His arm darts out and then quickly retreats. Fujioka-sensei completes an equation on the board. Osamu picks up the note. And your steady gaze follows.

For the longest time, you’ve always thought of the Miya twins as a kind of inseparable entity. Atsumu and Osamu. Osamu and Atsumu. Two pillars upholding a stable powerhouse. In the same way a table stands with four legs or a dancer fulfills a sequence in eight counts, their inseparability has adopted a nature of security, of a fortified, impenetrable strength achieved only as a pair. This assured strength—it’s exhilarating in perception, sure. Examine the way they move on the court and you will find yourself entranced. But in a way it’s also frightening, like how it’s frightening to know you have an unalterable 30 seconds before a bomb detonates. You scrunch your nose in thought. Does that make sense? Probably not.

The point is this. You watch Osamu’s fingers gently unfold the paper in his grasp, memorizing how the corners of his lips lift into a subtle smile. He caresses the crease in the middle with his thumb, and from the path of his eyes, you can tell that he’s reading its contents over and over. Soundlessly, he brings a hand to his mouth to muffle the chuckle that nearly slips out. Face soft and heavy with fondness, Osamu unfolds and unfurls, and the impenetrable strength one might associate with him melts away as sand slipping between fingers. This is an Osamu without Atsumu.

You ponder for a while at this novel entity, wondering how this came to be. As a fleeting instant passes, you glance over at Suna and your cheeks burn bright with comprehension. Oh.

In the courtyard, the cherry blossom trees laugh and snicker with glee. A stray petal lands on Suna’s desk, but he doesn’t reach to flick it away. Rather, his focus remains elsewhere.

* * *

The sweltering summer heat knows neither mercy nor kindness. It dangles from the back of your neck like a persistent child and buries a home within the small of your back. It’s suffocating, you think, just as your vision blurs briefly. Shit. You squeeze the water bottle in hand for bearing and rise to your feet, making your way to the outdoor sink near the back of the gym.

For several minutes, you settle there with your head beneath the tap, running water through your skin in hopes that it’ll coax the heat from between your temples and out your ears. When the cicadas grow loud enough to hear above the water, you twist the tap shut and straighten your back. The edges of your hair cry droplets on your shirt.

“Suna, what the fuck.”

You turn your head to the side, and you find yourself invading upon a known display. Two familiar figures stand a few meters away from you, walking the path that leads up to the gym. Suna has one arm wrapped around Osamu’s shoulders, the other holding a sports bottle directed at Osamu’s face. A foxy grin extends across Suna’s lips, wide and unapologetic.

“What? You asked for water, right?”

“Yeah, in my mouth, not at my face,” Osamu replies. He looks funny like that, you realize, wet bangs sticking to his forehead and all.

“Same thing,” Suna says, sounding pleased with himself.

In a motion too quick for your eyes to register, Osamu yanks the bottle out of Suna’s grasp right as the other attempts, and fails, to jerk away. They scuffle for a bit, a mess of long, tangled limbs and meaningless shoves. Osamu grabs a fistful of Suna’s shirt and attacks with three furious squirts of water. Suna retorts by jutting his leg out, swiping at the bottle as Osamu trips on his foot.

There isn’t really an aim to their banter. It’s a chaotic waltz that appears more than absurd to a passing eye. Are you a passing eye? You think of springtime and of passed notes and of fragile smiles hidden between the palms of secrecy; of things you are not meant to be privy to but are regardless.

A droplet slides down the slope of your neck. The cicadas’ music dims, as if the glorious suspense of a movie scene has arrived at its peak, and the world mutes itself around the pair of boys before you.

To a passing eye, perhaps Osamu appears irritated. The line between his brows and the clenched jaw speak clearly of such annoyance. To a passing eye, perhaps Suna appears indifferent. His cheeky expression does not waver and the silent sneer he wears is more than telling of his disinterest. But you watch them, and what you see is not irritation or indifference. A rosy flush blossoms across Osamu’s cheeks when he shoves a hand in Suna’s face, teeth gritted tight to subdue the laughter bubbling in his chest. With a smile, Suna catches the hand midway and pulls Osamu a little closer, eyes lustrous with a tender emotion.

The heat crawls from the ground’s surface and climbs into your face. Suddenly, you are seven years old again and rummaging through your mother’s drawers as you stumble upon something you aren’t meant to see. You are ten years old again, and you notice a pair of teachers holding hands at the corner of the classroom. You are in your second year of high school, and you’ve never seen anyone look at another person the way Osamu and Suna look at each other.

Without making a noise, you pinch the inside of your palm, grab your water bottle, and turn away, heading back inside.

* * *

The weather’s been getting cooler. A lazy breeze whistles a chill beneath your skin as the world drapes itself in muted glows of amber and gold. Sighing, you rest your face on one hand and listen distractedly while the classmate next to you moans about her math exam. Your bento lies neglected upon your desk, and you fiddle with the chopsticks every now and then.

Your seat beside the window provides an unhampered view of the school’s courtyard, littered with falling leaves and scattered benches. Students mingle and disperse themselves amongst the space. Conversations arise and dull, figures moving in and out of sight, and the trees paint this canvas with their loss, lamenting the inevitable passing of time.

On one of these benches, you spot Suna sitting with Osamu, legs splayed out as he leans back on his hands and stares at the sky with an absent visage. Suna’s bento teeters dangerously close to the edge of the bench, and Osamu studies its position before nudging it inwards, his own bento resting neatly on his lap.

It’s too far away for you to read their lips, but you can tell that Suna is talking. Beside him, Osamu remains silent, gaze concentrated on the hand Suna has laid on the bench between them. You bite your lip.

Will he?

Slowly, his hand inches closer, gliding past the frail length with a hesitance that palpably trembles in the air, until it hovers just above a finger. The charm of a mere touch, and what it means to seal a distance. Close, and closer still.

The honesty shatters when Suna turns to face him, and Osamu hastily retracts his hand. He balls it into a fist like the head of a tortoise shrinking into its shell, demure and uncertain. When Suna cocks his head to the side, Osamu scrambles to grab an onigiri from his bento, offering it as a poor semblance of a distraction. Above them, you let out a deep, drawn-out breath.

“Hey, is something wrong?” the classmate beside you interrupts.

Blinking, you swivel away from the window, “Oh, sorry. I was distracted.”

She scoots closer, curiosity beaming through, “Really? You’re smiling though. What were you looking at?”

You touch your widened lips with your hand. Huh.

“Nothing. Just—you know—leaves.”

* * *

In January, the Inarizaki Boys Volleyball Team returns from Nationals defeated and dethroned. This statement echoes throughout hallways and classrooms like silky shadows, clawing from the haze of a fresh loss. Not too many days after, the Miya twins arrive at school sporting vibrant bruises, bandages, and matching scowls. You stare in distant amusement as Osamu flops down into his seat that morning, a colorful array of violent sentiments budding across his skin. In front of you, Suna snickers into his palm.

His eyes linger, though, as Osamu frowns and shifts to the side. There is a hint of something there. Concern, perhaps. But the Miya twins fight _all_ the time. It’s hardly a surprise anymore when one or the other shows up with the remnants of a nasty punch. You’ve long since deduced that it’s simply how the twins communicate—through fists and teeth and nails.

So when Suna maintains his pensive countenance while Osamu isn’t looking, you wonder, then, what makes this so different.

* * *

The corridor dips into a placid shade of gray. Past the rows of windows, snow falls in quivering heaps. Earlier, Sato-sensei had asked you for help in dropping off a few papers in an old classroom at the opposite wing. It’s late in the afternoon now, and most of the students have either rushed home or gone for club activities, leaving the hallways deserted in the cold. As you make your journey back to your own classroom, you cherish this rare tranquility.

Upon approaching said class, a pair of voices gradually trickle in, both of which you recognize. Pausing, you tiptoe close to the edge of the window separating the classroom from the hallway and take a peek inside.

The image that greets you is yet another instance of an unexpected singularity. Suna is at his usual seat, holding a cotton ball drenched in disinfectant. Osamu, on the other hand, is seated on the top of your desk, facing Suna with an attitude akin to reluctance. To their left, the solemn winter light overflows against their figures, floating over desks and chairs in a gentle wave.

“I told you he’d react badly,” Suna says, reaching up to dab the cotton ball against a cut on Osamu’s cheek. He flinches away.

“What, so you’re on ‘Tsumu’s side?”

A sigh. The cotton ball lowers exasperatedly.

“Osamu,” Suna’s hand darts forward and squishes the other’s cheeks between his grasp. “Do I look like I have the energy to take sides between you two?”

Osamu grunts, and the hand on his face releases him.

They stay like that through their next dampened heartbeats. Suna, dabbing at Osamu’s cuts, conveying through his silence. Osamu, picking at his bandages, peeling at the edges. The afternoon’s momentum subsides between them, like characters frozen in time, an exchange of lines to be carved upon the wood of their desks. A sense of permanence, through the transient seconds that wade past.

“Hey, Suna.”

His movements halt.

Osamu lifts his head slightly. You see the blood cracking at the lines of a split lip, “Am I wrong?”

Suna hums and chooses to resume the process, hits the play button, “You’re never wrong for being honest about what you want.”

The pause before his next words, however, is laden with clarity. And Osamu’s hand grips the edge of the desk for coherence.

“But that doesn’t mean that Atsumu’s wrong, either.”

You peek your head an inch closer and sincerely hope that your desk doesn’t fracture beneath the athlete’s grip.

“Fuck him,” Osamu responds.

All Suna does is laugh, pressing hard on one of his wounds. The squawk that follows pierces through the somber mood, and you press your lips together to prevent a snort.

“Both of you were honest about what you want for yourselves. That’s all that matters,” Suna continues. “Everything else will fall into place in time.”

“Since when were you so philosophical?”

A smirk, “Maybe Kita-san’s rubbed off on me.”

“Hah.”

Suna reaches up once more, but this time it’s to flick Osamu’s forehead, “My point is, he’ll get over it.”

You trace the way his words soften, how his hand drifts down to interlace itself between the crevices of a curled fist and the grooves of calloused fingers. He soothes in the tiniest of gestures, but they are so much grander than what can ever be imagined. You know this because you’ve seen. Osamu knows this because he’s felt.

 _You’ll be okay_ , his actions say.

Osamu tilts closer then, tenderly, and their shared silhouette eclipses the fading sun from sight. 

The smile on your face endures even as you shift your attention away from them and head back down the corridor. You leave them with your unseen trust and decide that you can come back to gather your things later.

* * *

In spring, Osamu brushed petals off Suna’s hair.

In summer, Suna approached with two jelly fruit sticks in hand and offered one to Osamu.

In fall, Osamu wrapped his scarf around Suna’s neck with a precious touch.

And in winter, Suna caresses Osamu’s hands within his own, hidden breath pounding in his chest, as they lean in close by their corner of a secluded classroom.

Quietly, quietly. Through all this and more, you bear witness to a delicate unraveling.

* * *

Spring marks the start of a new school year.

As third-years, everything reveals itself with a strange finality. The classrooms are louder, the hallways are longer, and the eyes looking ahead are brighter. And in a hilariously fateful turn of events, you discover that you’ve been placed in the same class as Miya Osamu and Suna Rintarou, again.

They’re sitting farther from you now, up near the front, one desk after the other. You attempt to speculate on how many times they’ll get caught passing notes this year. And if you find your gaze wandering in their direction once more, you tell yourself that it’s entirely unintentional.

Still, they continue to surprise you. As you move your head towards them, you find that they’re staring back at you this time. Osamu has his elbow propped up on the desk, hand covering his mouth, as he whispers something in Suna’s ear and briefly points at your way. In turn, Suna’s eyes flash at you, and he whispers something back.

The blush immediately bursts across your face. They sure are gifted in subtlety.

You muster up whatever courage you’ve assembled from a year of observance and lift your hand in a meek wave. When the pair notices this, they chuckle quietly to themselves, responding with their own waves before returning to their conversation.

They don’t see the smile that they’ve brought forth from you, and that’s okay. You twist your head, peering out the window. A stray petal lands on your desk, but you don’t reach to flick it away. Rather, your focus remains elsewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and thoughts are greatly appreciated!! <3
> 
> You can also find me on my twitter :)  
> [https://twitter.com/uzumaeee](https://twitter.com/uzumaeee/status/1300201562774544384?s=20)


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